


Husband Mine (a.k.a. Lucifer Gets Lost)

by katya1828



Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: Amnesia, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Bottom Lucifer Morningstar (Lucifer TV), Depowered Lucifer Morningstar (Lucifer TV), Did I mention the whump?, Domestic Violence, Dubious Consent, F/M, Fake Marriage, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Het and Slash, Hurt Lucifer Morningstar (Lucifer TV), Insecure Lucifer, Lucifer Feels, Lucifer Morningstar (Lucifer TV) Needs A Hug, Lucifer Morningstar (Lucifer TV) Whump, M/M, Protective Chloe Decker, Rituals, Rough Sex, Slash, Violence, Vulnerable Lucifer Morningstar (Lucifer TV), Whump, deckerstar compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-04
Updated: 2020-02-28
Packaged: 2021-02-21 12:16:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 18,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22560781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katya1828/pseuds/katya1828
Summary: Marcus Pierce has a plan – steal Lucifer’s angel powers in a dastardly ritual, kill the devil, and then get Chloe Decker to fall in love with him instead of Lucifer. Then Marcus can become vulnerable and die, right?But Pierce fails to predict his reluctance to kill Lucifer in cold blood, especially when the ritual results in Lucifer losing his memory. Instead, Pierce takes Lucifer home and convinces him they’re married, and his attempt to woo Chloe goes equally awry. Chloe, meanwhile, is too good a detective to quit looking for the partner she cares deeply for, especially when she’s got a hunch that something is very wrong…Basically, a canon-divergent version of Pierce’s “get Decker to love me so I can die” plan in Series 3, set after S3E13 (the undercover marriage ep.).  Deckerstar compliant, with the Lucifer/Chloe relationship pretty much as it is in the show. Lucifer/Chloe is the emotional heart, although the bulk of the action and sex (and whump) is Lucifer/Pierce. Deckerstar hurt/comfort comes to the fore toward the end with a brief, equally h/c cameo from Amenadiel.
Relationships: Chloe Decker & Lucifer Morningstar, Chloe Decker/Lucifer Morningstar, Lucifer Morningstar & Marcus Pierce, Lucifer Morningstar/Marcus Pierce
Comments: 111
Kudos: 291





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Told from Marcus POV at start, and mainly Lucifer POV later on. That was the only way it worked for narrative purposes.
> 
> I’ve finished writing this, so I’ll be posting over the next few weeks, as and when I get time to edit and proof. Then I’ll aim to get the longer Lucifer/Amenadiel fic I'm working on up :) I hope some of you enjoy it and apologies for any typos that have slipped through.

“I know you married me,” said Lucifer, “but isn't this taking the whole ball and chain analogy just a little bit far?”

At the unexpected sound of Lucifer’s voice, Pierce span around, almost dropping the crusty seven-hundred-year-old book he’d been studying. “Shit,” he muttered. Why was nothing in his endless and accursed life never easy?

He’d laced Lucifer’s whisky-flask with carfentanil, a drug ten thousand times more potent than morphine. Lucifer wasn’t supposed to have woken up. Preferably at all, but certainly not until after Pierce had finished the complicated ritual he’d been about to commence. Lucifer was decidedly _not_ supposed to be staring at Pierce, wild and furious. He was straining his every beautifully-sculpted sinew against the hell-forged chains that criss-crossed his near-naked body, binding him flat to the industrial aluminium table.

Still, Pierce wasn’t overly worried. He put the book down, plucked up a knife. Warming to his task, he grabbed Lucifer’s hair, bashed his head back against the table with a clonk, and slid the knife beneath his chin.

“If you don’t behave,” said Pierce calmly, “I _will_ just kill you.”

Lucifer’s lip hitched in a snarl; he looked ready to spit venom. “I’d like to see you—"

Lucifer broke off, tensing and gasping, as Pierce nicked the knife into his throat with an expert precision. He slit only the very top layer of skin, but certainly deep enough cause a sting.

“We’re still in the precinct, Lucifer,” said Pierce. “And we’re exactly two floors below Chloe Decker’s desk. About six yards away from her, to be precise, and she’s knee deep in paperwork.” Pierce couldn’t contain a self-satisfied smirk at how well things had turned out. He’d decommissioned this corridor of cells, claiming they were outdated, as soon as he’d arrived in post as Lieutenant three months ago. In such a manic work environment, nobody had batted an eyelid when he’d ordered the locks to this shut-down sector changed, having a single key cut for himself.

“So shut the heck up,” he told Lucifer, withdrawing the knife but bumping Lucifer’s head against the table again for good measure. He found Lucifer’s wince of pain and the slight misting in his eyes gratifying.

Pierce returned to his book, a dusty old assemblage of vellum, scarcely held together by crumbling leather, but only got in another five seconds reading. “What are you up to, _Cain_ ,” snarled Lucifer, renewing his strenuous efforts against his bondage. “Killing me doesn't solve any of your issues.”

“Killing you is not actually the plan.” Pierce was irritated at the continued interruption to his study. He’d not realized his medieval Latin had gotten so rusty. Although the incantation was short, he needed to get the formulation right, hence his last-minute swatting. “You have something I want, and I'm going to take it from you.”

"Seeing as you’re several millennia too late for my virginity—oh, and I’m wearing boxer shorts I don’t even recall putting on—I'm genuinely intrigued." Lucifer’s voice was thick with venom, but either the drug, Chloe Decker’s nearness, or both, were taking their toll. He ceased his efforts to break his bonds and flopped back against the table, panting. He took the opportunity to look about himself, absorbing the flickering candles, and scrawled heptagrams—for some reason the usual pentagrams just wouldn’t cut it for this ritual. Pierce had also draped rosaries, amulets and various indefinable butcher’s leftovers across the surfaces and on hooks on the grimly-stained walls.

"Ugh!” Lucifer gasped in a lungful of air redolent with burning incense. “You're not going to perform one of those dreary exorcisms are you? Even if they weren't an ineffective waste of time—possession is a demon’s game, not mine—you can't exorcise _me_ from myself."

"No, that's not what I'm doing." Marcus scratched his head. Yeah, he’d gotten all this shit memorized. He just needed some peace to get on with the ritual.

"Shame,” sniped Lucifer. “But whatever tomfoolery you’re up to, rituals tend to be rather noisy affairs, and the Detective doesn’t diminish my vocal prowess. How about if I scream very, very loudly. I've got quite a powerful pair of lungs, in case you hadn't noticed."

Pierce hadn’t been so stupid as not to make sure the cell was well soundproofed, but Lucifer was, basically, giving him a headache. He thudded down the book, took a single pace across the cell, and backhanded Lucifer hard, cracking his head sideways and stunning him. Grabbing Lucifer by the hair again, he fitted a ball-gag, tugging it tight, while a purple-red bruise blossomed on Lucifer’s cheekbone.

"That's better,” said Pierce. Lucifer blinked hard before renewing his glare, which was fierce but slightly unfocussed. Now he’d gotten some quiet, Pierce discovered he was pleased Lucifer had woken up, because, hey, the ritual would probably hurt, and the bastard had— albeit with permission—hacked Pierce apart with a chainsaw. An unfamiliar urge to share what he was up to overcame him too. Because telling all would piss Lucifer off mightily.

He picked up the book. Lucifer’s gaze followed his every move. He struggled against his bonds again, but the effort was weaker and fretful.

“So,” started Pierce, “in case this one didn’t make it to the top of your TBR pile, I’ll fill you in. It’s a grimoire, compiled by a fourteenth-century monk. Most of it is the usual worthless crap. You know—spells to raise angels and demons, chanting, trances, treasure-hunting chickens, summoning the devil in the guise of a randy goat.” Pierce snorted; Lucifer rolled his eyes, suitably peeved. “But you see, _some_ of this shit actually worked, and one day, when William was deep in a trance, a path was revealed to him that he was never able to try, but vain and stupid enough to write down. A ritual that drew the powers of an angel unto a human, if one just happened to have an angel to hand."

The conflict inscribed on Lucifer’s features was a joy to behold—as much as anything was a joy in Pierce’s monotonous existence. A tidal-wave of panic was swamping Lucifer’s preferred demeanour of “I’m-going-kick-your-arse-any-moment” machismo, and the way he stretched his eyes wide and anxiously chewed the ball-gag verged upon adorable.

Not that Pierce found anything about Lucifer adorable. _Ugh._ He resisted the urge to stroke a stray strand of dark hair from Lucifer’s brow, and focussed on quelling his own misgivings. He sincerely hoped this grimoire shit would work and not turn out to be the ramblings of a gnarly old dude high on magic mushrooms. Still, he’d met William once, and he'd seemed the real deal.

Oh well. At the very least, with Decker two floors above—beavering away at the very cold case that Pierce had commanded her to solve in the next three hours—what he was about to do to Lucifer was likely to hurt.

Setting his mind as blank as he could, Pierce set to work. He arranged the candles around the cell in the shape of a heptagram. He then took a small, bejewelled dagger—William of Galdrabok’s own—and shifted Lucifer’s chains so enough of his chest was bare. Chanting in medieval Latin, and hoping his pronunciation wasn’t too off, Pierce watched, adrenaline pumping ever faster, as the blade of the knife transformed from pitted and rusted old steel to a pure white tongue of molten flame.

The weapon grew heavy in his grasp, as if the mass had quadrupled, and moving it through the air was like pushing it through thick treacle. He gritted his teeth, and with his mind and heart numbed, he used the tip of the knife to trace a seven-pointed star onto Lucifer’s chest. He wasn’t cutting as such, but the knife’s tip raised sore-looking welts, and Lucifer imbued his struggles with a fresh burst of energy. He bit and moaned into the gag, sweat flecking his forehead. His eyes brimmed with defiant, anguished tears as he followed Pierce—and the celestially-charged dagger’s—every move.

Only when Pierce finished drawing and chanting did Lucifer fall still. His eyes flickered shut. Pierce stood motionless, his knuckles white about the dagger’s hilt. The temperature dropped a few degrees, and ice trickled down Pierce’s spine. He shivered. The candles guttered and went out, but darkness did not fall. The chains about Lucifer glowed orange, as if fresh from a forge, and a shimmering crystalline light—divine power—streamed from the heptagram on Lucifer’s chest.

A lump formed in Pierce’s throat. He dropped the dagger and staggered back, bracing himself against the high metal bench behind him. The otherworldly light arced toward him, an intense heat needling against his skin. He ripped open his shirt, buttons pinging off at eclectic angles, then threw his head back and groaned as the tingling warmth pooled then seeped through his skin and into his chest. It felt so good, it verged upon erotic.

All too soon, it was over. The light died, and Pierce, fumbling shakily in the darkness, found the light switch. As soon as he had, he found a sharp, modern knife and stabbed himself in the heart.

He didn’t die; of course, he didn’t. Unlike the countless other times he’d been killed, however, it scarcely even hurt. The wound healed over almost instantly. A little like it might if he were not only immortal… but an angel.

Lucifer, on the other hand, had turned a deathly pale. He trembled from head to toe, as if caught in the throes of fever, keening beneath the gag. Pierce coolly noted that nasty red-burns had formed near where the chains were grazing his flesh.

Pierce sighed, weary but satisfied. The ritual had worked. He’d stolen the powers of an angel. He flexed back his shoulders, concentrating now on a strange prickling sensation in his upper trapezius muscles.

Ah, wings. He’d been really looking forward to having a pair of those.

Now, how exactly could he unfurl them?


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another short chapter, sorry! More tomorrow, hopefully, Saturday at the latest. Thanks so much for reading :)

"Have you come to a decision on the wine, Madam? Sir?" The waiter repeated his question for the umpteenth time

Pierce looked across the table to where Chloe Decker glanced up from her phone, distracted, her thoughts blatantly miles away. "Uh, no." She blinked and managed a guilty smile, visibly dragging her mind back to the present. "You decide. Really, I don’t mind."

“Okay, we’ll have the Shiraz,” said Pierce, then turned all his attention to Chloe. She looked gorgeous in a plain but stylish black top, her hair falling loose about her shoulders. But despite the matter that this was their first real date, it was proving as annoyingly hard for him to keep his attention on her—as hard as it evidently was for her to do anything other than constantly check her phone.

She was worried about Lucifer. Of course, she was. Even though he was a fully-grown man—devil—and he’d scarce been out of contact for six hours. She was in love with him, as any idiot could see…

…apart from Lucifer, Chloe, and all their family and friends. But they’d not Pierce’s long experience of humanity’s—and, indeed, angel-kind’s—sheer thickwitted blindness when it came to their own feelings.

Well, that was fine. Pierce would cure her of her obsession; he’d change the destiny of her heart. Now that he’d stolen Lucifer’s angel powers, her love would, with any luck, render him vulnerable, and he could finally, properly die. Halleluiah! If only _he_ could rip his mind from goddamn Lucifer too.

The waiter poured the wine, the starters were served. Pierce assumed a studiously caring manner, frowning, laughing and nodding on cue as Chloe confided in him about everything from Trixie’s school reports to her pet hates from when she’d lived with Dan. He scarcely took in a word, which vexed him. He fancied Chloe, she seemed to fancy him too, and stealing her love was the part of the plan he’d been most looking forward to. The ritual, stealing Lucifer’s powers, had been just a complicated formality, that he was glad had gone well.

What Pierce hadn’t expected was for Lucifer to wake up, and… heck, yeah, he had enjoyed having such power over one of those celestial bastards, making one of _them_ suffer for a change.

It was inevitable that Pierce’s mind was all over the place, so he probably shouldn’t have taken Chloe out on a date so hot on the heels of the ritual. He was aching to try his wings again—now _that_ had been a rush. He was also curious that he didn’t seem to have a devil face, but Lucifer had lost his, so maybe it hadn’t been there to steal. He was equally desperate get back and check on Lucifer, who he’d left bound to the table in the precinct.

Would Lucifer be dead? It would possibly be the most convenient outcome. If not, Pierce was probably going to have to kill him, but he was inclined _not_ to finish the job. Not yet, just in case the ritual wasn't quite right or something. He might need a second chance…

“Hey, Marcus.” His name—well, his current name—on Chloe’s lips ripped him back to the restaurant. Once again, he’d tuned out completely. “You okay? Is it the case? Do you want to talk about it? I’m sorry I couldn’t make any progress on it today, but—"

“Hey, no… I mean, yeah, it’s bugging me too, but it shouldn’t be. I put my best detective on it, and if you couldn’t make a breakthrough, nobody could.” Indeed, he knew for certain nobody could. He’d already checked the paperwork she’d been going through was a dead-end. He’d been well aware the dedicated little fool would throw herself into it and thus not leave her desk and render Lucifer invulnerable. She’d played her part well.

He reached across the table and squeezed her fingers, which felt tiny beneath his; she stilled, then relaxed a little. “I’m sorry. Look, shall we start tonight again?” The dessert menu arrived, and he grinned. “Preferably with key-lime pie?”

Sweets, more wine, and some smoochy 90s classics playing in the background helped relax them both. Finally, they engaged in deep conversation, albeit all about work. By the time they waited together for her cab outside the restaurant, he decided a "moment" might be in the cards.

He reached out and took her hand again, this time interweaving his fingers with hers. "Decker… I mean, Chloe, thank you. I had a great time. Sorry if I've seemed a bit distracted—"

"No, no, it was me. I should apologize."

_No, you really shouldn’t_ , he thought. He felt faintly bad he was stringing her along, then chastised himself for it. He had to be tough.

"I was worrying about Lucifer, like he's my kid or something,” she continued. “But it’s not like he doesn't go AWOL whenever he feels like, and he never cares about telling anybody where he’d gone."

"Honestly, it's fine. I get it. Lucifer’s an interesting guy. You two are close. Uh, are you're sure you're not..?" He lifted his brows, silently finishing the question he never quite asked. _Were Chloe and Lucifer finally an item?_

She shook her head vehemently. "No... no... we’re not together. God, no! It's just, I’m worried. I don’t know why, but I am."

Pierce repressed a stab of alarm. If she'd got some hunch Lucifer was in trouble—and Decker’s instincts tended to be good ones—she needed distracting and fast.

He cupped her face, stooped down, and brushed his lips against hers. She inhaled sharply, then returned the kiss falteringly, although allowing him to deepen it, wrapping his arms about her and pulling her close. He broke away before outstaying his welcome, enjoying how she smoothed her lips, apparently savouring the taste of him.

"Was that—?"

"It was nice," she said, a little too hastily for his liking. Her phone bleeped, her hand shot into her pocket, and she was gone in spirit if not in presence.

"Is it Lucifer?" he asked, trying to sound concerned. He knew it couldn’t be Lucifer, but acting as if he was supportive of her attachment to the irritating son-of-a-bitch wouldn't do him any harm.

It turned out to be Trixie’s babysitter, just checking in. Then the cab arrived. After a prolonged and awkward hug, which she initiated, she was gone. The worst part of it was that Pierce was relieved to be shot of her.

***

Lucifer was, predictably, where Pierce had left him. He was still alive, but his skin had turned a pallid grey. When Pierce carefully removed the ball-gag, Lucifer didn’t stir, but his breathing seemed short and sharp, and he appeared to be in some sort of stupor. Pierce pressed the back of his hand to Lucifer’s forehead. He was hot, as if taken with some kind of fever. He definitely seemed very human, vulnerable, and eminently killable.

Pierce flexed back his shoulders and released his wings, unable to contain a nigh-orgasmic groan at the awesome rush, the drug-like hit of power. The feathered tips, which were remarkable sensitive, brushed the grubby cell walls.

His stolen angelic powers were intact. He’d made tentative steps toward getting Decker to fall in love with him, and when that task was completed, death would be his at long last. For now, all he had to do was chose a blade and slit Lucifer’s throat, and yet…

He skimmed his fingers over the welts on Lucifer’s chest, tracing the heptagram and frowning. For a human, they were healing pretty well, as was the scratch Pierce had made with the knife on Lucifer’s throat, which worried him. Maybe Lucifer retained some residue of power? Or the ritual wasn’t quite as complete as Pierce hoped?

_All the more reason to kill him now._

As Pierce traced the wounds, Lucifer stirred and gasped, obviously in pain. Pierce froze then ran his knuckles gently down Lucifer’s stubbly cheek. “Hey, shhhhh, it’s okay.”

Lucifer sighed in his sleep, fortunately not waking, and Pierce gritted his teeth. He rarely flinched as slaughter; he’d killed in cold blood before. Yet he seemed to be bombarding himself with a billion reasons not to go through with this. The matter that having Lucifer at his mercy made him feel all the more powerful, was _not_ top of the list of reasons to keep him alive.

No, _really_ it wasn’t.

God was top of his list of reasons to not kill Lucifer. Obviously. Having gotten this far, Pierce was banking on the fact that God simply didn’t care that much about Lucifer—heck, he’d let Pierce steal his son’s powers. However, he was still a bit worried about Ella’s “big guy.” Killing one of God’s offspring, albeit his least favourite one, might just be pushing his luck. There was also the chance he might need Lucifer alive to repeat the ceremony.

He gazed down at his unconscious and undeniably hot victim. “So what the heck _do_ I do with you?”


	3. Chapter 3

Getting Lucifer out of the empty precinct proved easy enough. Especially now Pierce had angelic powers, which fortunately, he had swatted up on in his medieval books.

Apparently, when an angel unleashed their wings, they passed partially into another dimension, one caught between the celestial and the earthly. If the angel willed it, walls and other physical boundaries could be passed through as if they were air.

Picking up Lucifer proved a doddle too, although he had to weigh nearly as much as Pierce did. Pierce scooped him up in his arms as if he was as light as Chloe, and after a few ill-coordinated flaps and a slightly choppy first flight, Pierce laid Lucifer down on his own bed in his apartment. He took a step back, retracted his wings before they took chunks out of the plasterwork, and regarded his captive. His mind was still screaming, not irrationally, _What the heck are you going to do with him now_?

His body—specifically his cock, which was semi-hard at the sight of Lucifer splayed helpless and wearing only his pair of boxers—seemed to have clearer plans, and not ones that Pierce had foreseen before tonight. He’d clocked that Lucifer was hot, but in the past had been too busy disliking the slutty devil and envying his lot.

But, now that he had Lucifer at his mercy..?

After a moment of temptation, Pierce opted not to act on his desires. It was late, he was tired, and he didn’t want Lucifer waking up and landing him with a struggle. Oh, and also because it would be so goddamn wrong. He might be a murderer, but even Cain wouldn’t stoop _that_ low.

So, instead, he handcuffed Lucifer’s ankles and wrists to the four bedposts then threw a blanket over his prisoner, before his semi burgeoned into a full-on erection. Pierce locked the bedroom door, shoved a chest of drawers against it, just in case, and spent an uncomfortable and restless night on his sofa.

***

“Help! Help! Is anybody there?”

At the sound of Lucifer’s yells, Pierce woke abruptly. He was on his feet the instant he opened his eyes, reeling dizzily as his memories of the previous day’s triumph crystalized.

Crap! He should totally have left Lucifer with the gag on. He’d been tired last night. Not thinking properly. He was fortunate the adjoining apartment was empty, but he had to shut Lucifer up and fast, in case anybody called by and heard his cries.

And if that meant killing Lucifer? Well, Pierce would do what he had to do, and in the stark light of morning, it didn’t seem such a trying prospect as it had before. Yeah, he’d been tired and stupid last night. He took a handgun from his desk drawer, then slipped it in the back of his belt and cautiously approached the door.

“Please, help me! Can anybody hear me? Anyone?”

On reaching the door, Pierce paused and frowned. That was Lucifer’s voice calling, sure enough, but… somehow, it didn’t _sound_ like Lucifer. Lucifer didn’t plead. He didn’t beg. The Lucifer that Pierce was familiar with would be yelling with his usual devil-may-care confidence. He’d be threatening to rip whoever had done this to him limb from limb, whether he’d realized he’d been robbed of his powers or not.

Odd.

Or maybe it was some sort of trick?

“Help! Help!” Lucifer’s voice was growing hoarse and weaker. It didn’t sound like he’d managed to escape from his chains on the bed, and there was certainly no banging on the other side of the door. Pierce removed the chest he’d wedged beneath the door handle.

Lucifer clearly heard, as he asked, in a smaller voice, “Hello? Is somebody there?”

He sounded genuinely frightened, and Pierce couldn’t trust _that_ one little bit. He grabbed his jacket from the back of the couch, slipped it on so the gun was concealed and not too easily grabbable. Slowly, he unlocked and pried open the door.

Lucifer’s eyes stretched wide as Pierce sidled into the room. Pierce schooled his face into a blank mask. He kept reminding himself: _You have the strength now. You have the power. You’ve nothing to fear from him. His life is in your hands._

Far from the snarling, chained devil he’d anticipated, the man spread-eagled on the bed, only half covered by the blanket, looked petrified.

“Where am I? P-please don’t hurt me. Who… who _are_ you?”

“Who am _I_? Stop messing around, Lucifer.”

“Lucifer? Is that… Is that my name?” Lucifer sounded as shaky and scared as he appeared, and now also wildly perplexed. “Bloody hell! Really?”

Pierce, still in the doorway, mulled over his next move carefully. If Lucifer wasn’t kidding him, then he had to be suffering from an unpredicted side-effect of yesterday’s ritual. William of Galdrabok had never actually gone through with the ceremony, so his book had lacked information about its aftermath. However, Pierce was well aware that those who dabbled with the darker side of magic often paid with their sanity. Nevertheless, Lucifer wasn’t acting mad as such. In fact, the terror with which he regarded Pierce, and the way he strained at his bondage, could be perceived as the sane responses of any normal human being.

Not Lucifer, though. At least, not the Lucifer that Pierce knew. Could Lucifer’s memories of being an angel—and the devil—have evaporated with his powers? And had he also lost all recollection of his life in L.A.? It was the only logical explanation.

Lucifer had amnesia.

Pierce’s shocked gaze locked onto Lucifer’s terrified one, even as a plan formulated in Pierce’s mind that he hated nearly as much as he loved. It was either true madness or pure genius.  
  
"Hey, hey, calm down.” He raised his hands and spoke soothingly, inching nearer as if he was approaching a child or an injured wild animal. “It’s okay, love. I'm sorry.”

Lucifer shrank back into the single flattened pillow. “S-sorry? For what… I don’t remember how I got here. Who are you? Why am I chained up?”

“My name’s Marcus,” he said. “I’m your husband.”

“M-my husband? Why don’t I remember you? Why don’t I remember anything?” He yanked at his chains, and forced another hoarse yell: _“Why am I chained up?”_

“Because you asked me to chain you up, honey. You’re into this sort of thing.”

Pierce reached out and stroked a stray curl from Lucifer’s brow; Lucifer tensed, fear still iridescent in his eyes. And then, very slowly, Pierce reached for the cuff that fastened Lucifer’s left wrist to the bedpost and clicked it open.  
  
Pierce steeled himself for a fight. He’d know if he'd been duped any second now…

But instead of grabbing for Pierce’s throat, Lucifer allowed Pierce to gently move his arm down, and sighed gratefully when Pierce rubbed his wrist for him. Pierce had fastened the cuffs pretty tight and Lucifer’s arm was red and bruised from his struggles and from the chains he’d been wrapped in yesterday. He followed Pierce’s movements with those wide, scared eyes, as Pierce unfettered the rest of his limbs. He listened, apparently unquestioningly, as Pierce continued to impress himself with the fluency of his lies.

“You’re having one of your turns,” explained Pierce. “I’m so sorry, honey. You see, a few months ago you had an accident. A car smash. You hit your head real bad, and it was touch and go whether you'd ever get your memory back, but we fought through together. They warned us you might have relapses but... Oh, shit, why did it have to happen now?” Having finished untying Lucifer, he sat down on the bed. Lucifer had shuffled up into a sitting position, his knees curled in front of himself, the blanket pulled up to his chin. “We were playing a game last night. Leaving you chained like that was all your idea, really it was.”

“I’m into kinky sex games?” Lucifer quirked a brow, and for the briefest instant, he seemed a little more _Lucifer_. Then, to Pierce’s relief, that uncharacteristic bewilderment returned. “I suppose, I might be,” he murmured.  
  
“You begged me for it. Literally you did.” Pierce reached out and touched Lucifer’s face, surprising himself with what seemed to be an instinctual act of tenderness. Lucifer jolted, but he didn’t quite recoil, emboldening Pierce to go in for the kill. He shuffled up onto the bed beside Lucifer, wrapped his arms about him, and pulled him against him in a hug. “Hey, that’s better,” whispered Pierce, as he felt Lucifer rest his head against his shoulder. “Let me make this right. It’ll be okay. I promise.”

Lucifer remained slightly rigid. Pierce could feel his heartbeat racing, even faster than his own was, and Pierce’s blood rushed through his veins like wildfire. His thoughts galloped. He was, by nature, a reticent man. Nevertheless, he'd had a fair deal of practice concocting tall tales over the centuries, especially in these latter years when he’d often been confronted with photographs of himself from decades ago to explain away. Lucifer—or, at least, this strange shadow of Lucifer—appeared to be buying his story, although that created a fresh and unexpected problem.  
  
He had his hands full—quite literally, his arms full—of a very confused and apparently amnesiac former devil, who he'd just told was his husband. He didn't find the man repulsive, quite the contrary, but what the heck was he supposed to do _now_? Especially now that Lucifer began to shake in an odd jerky fashion.

Was he crying? That seemed a particularly un-Lucifer thing do to. If he was, he was fighting the emotion hard, and he’d buried his face in Pierce’s shoulder so it was hard to tell for sure. Pierce petted the back of Lucifer’s hair awkwardly.

"Hey, your memories will come back soon, I promise. They did last time.” Hmmm. Possibly not the best promise to make. Pierce didn’t want that to happen any time soon. “It’ll be okay.”  
  
He hugged Lucifer tighter, inhaling the lingering scent of incense mingled with some expensive hair products and something uniquely, wonderfully Lucifer. “Shh, it’ll be fine.” He seemed to be saying the right kind of thing, because for a brief instant, Lucifer melted into him. Then he hissed with pain, and pushed Pierce away.

“There’s something hard in your jacke—"

Lucifer broke off, staring down at the heptagram scored upon his chest, which he’d plainly only just noticed.

“What is this?” Fury flashed in Lucifer’s slightly reddened eyes. Pierce’s horror mushroomed when, reaching inside his jacket, he discovered Lucifer’s whisky-flask. Shit! He’d meant to dispose of that—he must’ve been carrying it last night when he’d been courting Decker—but there’d been so much else to think about. Fortunately, Lucifer’s wrath vanished almost as soon as it’d appeared, his air of befuddlement returning. Having noticed the heptagram, he didn’t seem to care what had dug against him. He fingered the strange red welts. “Did you do this to me? What does it mean?”

Pierce, still sat on the bed beside him, pinched the bridge of his nose. “Oh, uh, I used hot wax. It’s just a kink. I know it looks bad, but you begged for this too, honey.”

"It does all seem a little familiar,” murmured Lucifer, wincing as he repeatedly jabbed at the wounds, as if the discomfort was some kind of novelty. Which, of course, it was. “It feels like something that somebody I know is into, not _quite_ me, as it were."  
  
"A friend of yours got you into it. Let’s just leave it at that for now. Look, you take it easy. I’ll get something to clean you up and be right back."

Pierce charged off and grabbed some antiseptic wipes from a first-aid kit that’d come with his police-issue car. When he returned to the bedroom, Lucifer had flopped back on the bed, his arm flung over his face. He didn’t protest when Pierce started dabbing at his wounds, but hissed at the sting, then sat up a little and watched Pierce work in silence.

Pierce didn’t quite dare look Lucifer in the eye, instead throwing himself into the task. Tending Lucifer’s body wasn’t exactly a chore. He found himself sighing inwardly at the damage he’d done to pure celestial perfection. Lucifer’s skin was pale and smooth, and Pierce wanted to lick it, not least because, as he reminded himself, Lucifer wasn’t celestial anymore. _His_ was now the celestial flesh, and God—God bless him, for once!—was letting him get away with it, thus far.

Lucifer watched Pierce so intently that his gaze seared into Pierce like a laser. Beneath his touch, Lucifer trembled, and doubt dogged Pierce once more. Was Lucifer scared or a coiled spring, ready to pounce, ready to unleash his strength. And yet again, Pierce reminded himself— _he_ was the mighty one now. Even if they were both humans, Pierce would probably have the edge, on body mass and experience. After all, he’d scrapped through thousands of years without relying on angel powers.

Yeah, having Lucifer as his thrall was a massive turn on, with only one drag factor: he didn’t seem capable of killing this very human, vulnerable version of Lucifer. Instead, he wanted to have sex with him, a prospect he now seriously considered again. Maybe once the deed was done, killing would be back on the cards.

After a final, gentle dab, he conjured a solicitous smile. "That better?” He squeezed Lucifer’s bare shoulder. Lucifer gave a slight nod. “I'll go fix some breakfast. Maybe everything will start to trickle back.”

Lucifer hummed as if he wasn’t really listening, then frowned. “Am I really called Lucifer? I mean… I don’t remember anything about myself, about you… about my life. But… that’s the name of the devil right?”

"Yes. Hey, your dad was a bit of an odd one."

“That does feel somehow right,” said Lucifer, dragging the blanket back across himself. “Uh, where are my clothes?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading :)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading my fic, everyone :) So, this is the chapter that I slapped the dub con warning on for. The sex is quite intense and a bit disturbing, so... anyway, heads up for that.

Pierce spent the next half hour formulating lies and plots at such an impressive rate he feared he’d lose track of them all.

First, he told Lucifer to take a shower and freshen up, which didn’t take much persuading. Then, hurrying, he printed off some the photos they’d mocked up when they’d gone undercover as a married couple. He slipped these on top of the washed-out framed prints that had come with the apartment when he’d rented it.

For reasons he’d not analysed too hard at the time, he’d kept the wedding ring they’d used for the undercover ruse, so he slid that back on. He also retrieved the signet ring that Lucifer always wore, which he’d taken off Lucifer yesterday, and popped it on the bedside table for Lucifer to find when he emerged from the bathroom. It didn’t look much like a wedding ring, but he’d explain that away if and when Lucifer asked.

He’d just finished whispering orders down the phone to a corrupt physician who owed him a favour, when Lucifer appeared at the bedroom door. Pierce slammed down the receiver, and tried to act relaxed and natural, offering a lopsided smile.

Lucifer didn’t smile back, although he wasn’t glaring devilish daggers either, which Pierce took to be a good thing. Indeed, Lucifer looked lost and uncomfortable in the slightly oversized red-checked lumberjack shirt and jogging pants that Pierce had laid out for him.

“None of these outfits are mine,” said Lucifer, raking his damp curls. “They don’t feel right. I might not remember who I am, but I’m bloody well sure I don’t like ugly, baggy clothes. Also, this ring doesn’t look much like a wedding one and fits on the wrong finger.” He fiddled with the ring, as he glanced around the room. “Do we live here together? Because… it feels decidedly… wrong.”

“Hey, it’s fine, baby. You picked the onyx ring because you wanted something, uh, different, and, um… the rest will come back soon.” Pierce hurried over, took Lucifer by the arm and led him to the table where he’d started to lay for brunch. He nodded toward one of the wedding photos. “See? That was just a few months ago, our wedding day. In, er, Hawaii. You said it was the happiest day of your life.”

“Really?” Lucifer picked up one of the pictures, pulling a face. “I'm wearing a different ring, and those shirts are disgusting. Nope. Still doesn’t feel like my life. Are you sure you’re not some psycho crime-boss kidnapper?”

“No!” Pierce, who’d been cracking eggs into a pan, briefly panicked. “How could you say that?”

“I don’t know.” Lucifer collapsed down on one of the seats at the table. “I was joking. I think. But I don’t remember you. I don’t remember anything. Please, just tell me more about who I am and maybe something will start to make sense. And shouldn’t I see a doctor, if this is some kind of relapse?”

“Taken care of,” said Pierce. “He’s on his way over. Now let’s get some food inside you, and then we’ll see if we can find any memories.”

As the lies mounted, Pierce’s faith in his storytelling prowess grew. Lucifer, so he told him, had grown up in London, scion of an aristocratic family, who’d dabbled in business using his Dad’s money and managed his own nightclub. They’d met, so Pierce said, around a year ago, just after Lucifer had rowed with his father.

“He threw you out,” explained Pierce, pressing his hand over Lucifer’s. He took pride in how easily he was getting into the act compared to the last time he’d faked marriage with Lucifer. Then, he’d let Lucifer do all the work. “Cut you off without a penny. You had nowhere to go, so you came back to the States with me. There’s been a delay in having your stuff sent out. Your family have been pretty mean about it.”

Lucifer, who’d only eaten a single mouthful of eggs, regarded him intensely. “I’ll be honest,” he said slowly, “what you just told me does feel kind of… familiar. But aren’t I a little old to have just been thrown out of home?”

_You have no idea._

Pierce repressed a smirk. “I’m always ribbing you about being an overgrown rich brat. Took you a very long time to snap the apron strings, but you were glad when you did. You love your new life in LA.”

“That feels right somehow too.” Lucifer shovelled in a little more food, seemingly relaxing. “But what’ve I been doing since I’ve been here? I mean, I don’t believe I’m the sort of person who’d just slob around at home, waiting for my husband to get back from work.”

“You have been recovering from the accident,” Pierce reminded him. “And you’ve been, you know, trying this and that.”

“Trying _what_?”

Lucifer placed down his fork and skewered Pierce with a stare that sent a tremor down Pierce’s spine. A hint of some deep and ancient knowledge, seeping back through?

“Trying your hand in, uh, investments, shares, that sort of thing.”

“I see.” Lucifer didn’t sound convinced, and Pierce silently cursed that he’d let himself relax the instant Lucifer appeared to. He’d let down his guard and floundered. “And, pray, what do you do while I’m dabbling, husband mine?”

“I’m a policeman,” said Pierce, glad the truth would suffice for a change—at least part of it. Then, quite literally, he was saved by the bell.

Pierce dashed to let in the doctor, a rangy alcoholic named Sharp who Pierce had “helped” out with some gambling debts. He played the part Pierce had demanded of him well. He examined Lucifer, shone a light in his eyes, did all the generic stuff. Pierce sat across from them, drilled his features into an expression of grave concern, and tried to figure out what to do next.

He wasn’t acting rationally, and it was damned obvious why. When the doctor asked Lucifer to unbutton his shirt then deigned to touch Lucifer’s chest, albeit while placing a stethoscope, Pierce found himself seething with jealously. He almost laughed at himself. _Possessive much, Cain?_

His next move grew obvious. There was no point going to the effort of keeping Lucifer alive without trying the goods and ensuring they were worth it. He _must_ have sex with Lucifer, right here, right now. The notion drifted into his mind that he would be taking Lucifer’s human virginity. While the notion of Lucifer being a virgin of any kind was a hilarious prospect—the slut must’ve lain with thousands, tens of thousands even—it appealed to Pierce nonetheless.

“You can button up now,” said Sharp to Lucifer. He gave Lucifer’s thigh a reassuring pat. Even that innocuous move ignited a faint pang of jealously in Pierce, who Sharp now turned to address.

“There’s no point taking him to a hospital,” said the doctor. “All his vitals are fine. What he needs is somewhere quiet to rest and recuperate, preferably outside the city. Is there anywhere you can take him?”

“Hello! I am right here, you know.” Lucifer bristled at being left out of the conversation.

“Hey, honey, I know, I know.” Pierce rushed to his side, and placed his hand on the spot that the doctor had vacated—then slid it a bit higher and squeezed. Lucifer glared at him, but didn’t push him away. “He just knows how desperately worried I’ve been about you. We just want to look after you. You _like_ being looked after. You’ll also really like the place in the country I’m going to take you to. Belongs to a mutual friend of ours. It’s a bit tumbledown, but romantic. You’ll love it.”

In truth, Lucifer’s “loving” it was pretty low on Pierce’s list of priorities, but he had thought of the ideal place. He had to get Lucifer out of LA, somewhere isolated where he could string the whole “marriage” scenario out a little longer, but where he could also contain Lucifer if his powers started returning.

And quietly do away with him, of course, but Pierce didn’t want to dwell on that inevitability, so he pushed it to the back of his mind.

Pleasure first, he told himself. Death later, preferably for both of them.

He showed the doctor out, and then returned to Lucifer, who remained sulky and dower. Pierce sat back down beside him and slid his arm along the back of the sofa, not quite cuddling Lucifer, but edging that way.

“What’s wrong?” asked Pierce.

“Apart from that I have forgotten everything I never knew about myself?” snapped Lucifer. “How about… oh, I don’t know…” He met Pierce’s gaze, and Pierce was relieved to read authentic distress rather than that menacing glint he’d discerned earlier. “Everything feels off,” said Lucifer. “I suppose it must be hard for you too… but I don’t _know_ you. What if my memory never comes back?”

“It will, I promise.”

“How did it come back last time?” asked Lucifer. “I mean, did it just come back suddenly, or in dribs and drabs. Did something specific jog it?”

“Oh yeah, it sure did. Do you want me to try what brought it back last time?” Pierce edged his arm forward around Lucifer’s shoulders.

Lucifer drew breath sharply. “Very well.”

Pierce grinned, leaned forward, and began to kiss him.

He licked the seam of Lucifer’s lips; briefly, Lucifer froze. Then with a moan, he yielded, parting his lips to invite Pierce in, and seemingly coming alive. Heck, Lucifer had _not_ forgotten how to kiss. He worked it energetically, his tongue gliding artfully against Pierce’s, setting Pierce’s flesh tingling, his senses waltzing. Pierce buried his fingers in Lucifer’s unusually messy hair, and returned the kiss with interest. He plundered ever deeper, grinding his body against Lucifer’s, before happily discovering the strength to drag Lucifer forward and half onto his lap.

When they broke apart, they were both breathless, and Lucifer looked away, laughing. “I remember one thing,” he panted. “I do like kissing people, and I’m rather good at it.”

Something—either this hint of Lucifer’s usual exuberance, the fear his memory was returning, Pierce’s newfound possessiveness, or a combination of all—ignited Pierce’s tempter. He grabbed Lucifer’s jaw, squeezing hard, forcibly turning his face back.

“No, Lucifer. You like kissing _me_. Only me. Do you want to remember how we do things or not?”

“I-I suppose.”

Pierce initiated another kiss, which grew brutal and rough, heedless of the clash of teeth or the graze of tender flesh. He fumbled at the buttons of Lucifer’s ugly shirt, ripping it from him, allowing his hands to roam free, ranging hungrily across Lucifer’s smooth torso, his sinuous upper arms. Then, barely breaking the kiss or giving Lucifer much chance to breathe, he grappled him down flat onto the couch. Pierce was full-on erect now, and was interested to note that Lucifer had gotten a semi. Indeed, Lucifer was pretty much going with the flow. Pierce soon had Lucifer pressed beneath him, and he pinned Lucifer’s wrists either side of his head. Then the son-of-a-bitch started laughing.

“You are a possessive one, aren’t you?” Lucifer grinned. “I _like_ it. But surely you don’t always get it your own way?”

Lucifer, still smirking, bucked against Pierce, trying twist his arms free. When Pierce refused to release him, his laughter faded. Disquiet furrowed his brow, and his words contained a rasp of challenge. “This doesn’t feel at all familiar.”

“It sure as heck will soon,” snarled Pierce. “You love it rough, baby.” And Pierce couldn’t help loving being able to call Lucifer “baby.” It was rewardingly… belittling. “Just wait and see.”

Lucifer didn’t reply, but he didn’t protest either. Pierce used one supernaturally powerful arm to hold Lucifer down, and then straddled his thighs and yanked down those oversized pants. Lucifer hadn’t bothered with underwear, but then, for once, Pierce couldn’t blame his slutty ways. Pierce hadn’t bothered to put any clean ones out for him.

Lucifer still looked uncomfortable: uncharacteristically embarrassed even, lying beneath Pierce completely exposed and notably less aroused than he’d been a few moments earlier. Pierce, who’d become hot and horny enough to consider ramming straight in and throwing caution to the wind, took pity. Lucifer’s body was human now, and he didn’t want to break it. Yet. He kissed Lucifer again, gentle and sweet this time, then rolled off him. “Wait a moment, honey. I’d better get the lube.”

When Pierce hurried off to get some, Lucifer stayed put. Pierce took that as a kind of permission for what he was about to do, then wondered why his conscience needed salving at all. He was simply trying the goods to see if they were worth the effort of keeping.

Lucifer came alive again when Pierce pressed a slicked finger inside him. He hummed with pleasure, hitching his knees up and urging Pierce deeper. “Mmmmm, that feels nice. More…”

“You gonna ask nicely? Say please, baby.”

“Please.” Lucifer narrowed his eyes, and it occurred to Pierce that begging _was_ decidedly unfamiliar for Lucifer. To distract him, Pierce shoved a second digit inside him, scissoring, then pressing toward a spot he knew well would command all Lucifer’s attention. He finger-fucked Lucifer until he was moaning and writhing and very visibly turned on, then decided enough was enough.

He wanted rough sex, not to indulge the son-of-a-bitch.

Without any more prep or ceremony, he shoved himself inside, and taking Lucifer’s human virginity… felt goddamned _incredible_. Pierce groaned. Fuck! Lucifer was so tight, Pierce feared his brains would fizzle and explode. Lucifer snatched a broken, shaky gasp, which satisfied Pierce immensely. Pierce’s shaft was a heck of a lot bigger than a couple of his fingers, and it sounded like Lucifer was struggling to take him. Felt like it too. The clench of his butt about Pierce’s cock verged upon numbing.

Pierce paused a moment, enjoying how Lucifer’s bottom lip quivered, his expression fraught and slightly pained. He keened as his body gave, his muscles relaxing a little. “Bloody hell,” breathed Lucifer. “Okay… okay… fuck me.”

“You’ve remembered you’re a slut then,” murmured Pierce, and he began to move, little by little intensifying the penetration, coaxing Lucifer further apart until he was sheathed inside him to the hilt. Lucifer’s face had flushed, and he appeared nearly as frightened as he was aroused, as if he feared he was going to rip at the seams. His gaze had taken on a milky hue. It faintly occurred to Pierce that, very possibly, Lucifer would sense that something was off, as he struggled to accommodate the guy who claimed he was his husband and who’d done him like this tons of times. He’d worry about that later, if he had to.

Right now, a sublime heat prickled throughout his body. He was going to have fun.

Pierce commenced his rough sex, ploughing Lucifer mercilessly so the couch shook. Rearing up, he grabbed Lucifer’s hair so he could fuck him deeper and harder, still revelling in his expression of pained-pleasure. Yeah, the whore was enjoying this. Well, sort of.

Lucifer, his knees still hitched up, was using his elbows to brace himself against the upholstery. Pierce guessed it must’ve felt like he was about to be fucked right through it. Lucifer’s own arousal, thus, was going neglected. Feeling generous, Pierce supported himself on one of his huge, powerful arms and took Lucifer’s shaft in his hand, pumping to the jerky rhythms of his thrusts.

They came, surprisingly, almost as one. Heat flooded Pierce’s hand, even as a flaming spasm of pleasure ripped through Pierce, and he erupted deep inside Lucifer. He collapsed then, boneless, on top of him, both of them gasping and shaking and thoroughly spent. After a few minutes of basking in a fantastic post-coital afterglow, Pierce shocked himself with his ongoing kindness. He sat up, then pulled Lucifer’s head and shoulders into his lap, and started to stroke his hair. Lucifer blinked hard, then moving for the first time, made an effort to drag his trousers up, covering himself.

“Do you remember anything now, baby?”

He didn’t want a positive answer, and Lucifer didn’t give one. Instead, he said shakily, “No. I’m just… kind of sore… like it’d never quite been like that before.”

“Sorry, but I did it how you like it. Maybe next time you’ll remember.”

“Maybe,” said Lucifer. Pierce found himself grinning. Yup, he tried the goods, and he’d very much enjoyed them—and he’d wings to play with too. Once he’d got Lucifer settled, he was looking forward to some energetic flights. It would be highly convenient, once he’d got Lucifer holed up in the country, to whizz easily and undetectably between Lucifer and his job in the city and, of course, Chloe Decker.

Indeed, this project was going so well, Pierce figured he might have to review his goals. His aim had been to take Lucifer’s powers and have Decker fall in love with him so he could finally die. Instead, having an amnesiac Lucifer to play with had given him an unexpected zest for life, that he figured he might as well enjoy.

After all, could keep up both projects, hedge his bets.

He left Lucifer lying on the sofa, looking pale and shell-shocked, and poured himself a large, neat whisky. He drunk it without even a shudder at the hit of the powerful liquor. Then, emboldened, he decided to try something. He retrieved Lucifer’s flask from his jacket, filled it with whisky, and took it over to him.

“That’ll perk you up,” he said. Lucifer, visibly brightening at the sight of the flask, sat up and took it. He took a swig—then coughed, pulling the truly precious expression of a man with a very human constitution who was unused to handling his liquor.

“Ugh! I kind of recognize this flask, but maybe I usually take spring water with my whisky?”

“I figured you might like it neat after what we just did.” Pierce laughed.

Lucifer said nothing, but as Pierce reached to take the flask off him, Lucifer’s grip about it tightened. Their gazes met, and fear jack-knifed through Pierce’s gut. Lucifer’s eyes flashed with outrage, betraying again some hint of ancient knowledge and truth, which shook Pierce to his core. Shit. Maybe giving Lucifer the flask had been a stupid move. He’d let the rush of conquest go his head.

Then Lucifer’s ire vanished. He allowed Pierce, who sighed inwardly with relief, to take the flask, and flopped back against the sofa. “I’m tired,” he said. “My head hurts and I want to sleep.”

“You do that, baby. I gotta go run some errands, but I’ll be back soon.”

Pierce stooped to kiss his forehead, then headed for the door. He’d employed a henchman to watch the apartment, in case Lucifer tried to leave, but had a hunch he wouldn’t. Lucifer looked shattered.

So Marcus Pierce headed off to woo—and hopefully, to seduce—Chloe Decker.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the slow update. It's been one helluva week :P Next chapter won't be so long coming, promise.

_Two weeks later_

Lucifer scrubbed vigorously at soap scum inside the bath, and wiped the perspiration from his forehead with the back of his rubber-glove-clad hand. He was still... very confused.

He hadn’t got his memory back, but the last fortnight, which he’d passed in this cottage in the middle of nowhere, had been, overall, quite bearable. The sex—bloody hell, the sex!—had been _unbelievable_. Well, actually, Lucifer believed very much in it, and it was the major reason he trusted Marcus, and that he believed in their marriage.

After that first time after the amnesia struck, which had been painful and unsettling, his conjugal relations with Marcus had taken off big time. He loved sex, and so did Marcus. The first day at the cottage, they’d shagged almost constantly for twelve hours, and he’d astounded himself with his skills in that department. He might not recall any details about his life, but his tongue still seemed to know exactly what to do when he’d a large cock wedged between his lips. The things he recalled how do with rosary beads and a sex swing had set both he and Marcus boggling.

Yup, he and Marcus were totally in tune in the bedroom department, and when they weren’t having sex, they got along fine, chatting and making meals… and then having more sex. The problems arose when Marcus buggered off to work, leaving Lucifer alone for hours. Okay, so Lucifer got that he was supposed to be resting, but being alone for so long made him edgy and suspicious. When Marcus wasn’t there, everything felt… off.

And he was so bloody bored! There was no internet or cable connection, so for the first week, he’d tried reading. He’d ingested the whole of The Lord of the Rings, which was okay, but he felt uneasy about that too. The story seemed to be told very much from the perspective of one side, and he couldn’t help wondering if Sauron had simply been misunderstood. Then he tried The Silmarillion, but gave up on that after the first few chapters. It was boring and he missed the hobbits—at least they had drugs and parties.

Which brought Lucifer onto the obsessive cleaning of the cottage, to which he now applied himself with gusto, simply because there was little else to do. He’d even found the perfect outfit for it, in the cases full of clothes that Marcus had suddenly produced for him, saying they’d finally been shipped out from London. Among the beautiful bespoke tailored suits, which felt right as hell and fitted him to perfection, he'd found a pair of black hot-pants with braces and a frilly-white apron, which he now wore. Sometimes, he liked to do the cleaning naked, and a bit of drudgery made him feel sexy and hot, albeit in a subby fashion. But the novelty even of _that_ was wearing off.

Lucifer stopped scrubbing, took a moment to admire the sparkling bathtub, then wandered off to find the vacuum cleaner. To be honest, while he enjoyed cleaning things, he hated hoovering. But Marcus had put in a special request before he’d disappeared off to work, and there was mud on the doormat from when they’d come in after a stroll and al-fresco sex in the woods. So, Lucifer plugged the hoover in and started work.

Oh, but he _really_ hated hoovering. Just the dreariness of pushing the stupid contraption back and forth brought all his half-understood frustrations bubbling to the surface. When the stupid machine cut out—he must’ve travelled so far from the socket he’d pulled the plug out—his temper snapped. He kicked hard at the skirting board, then yelled with wordless fury and grabbed his toes. The discomfort faded fast. Lucifer found himself sitting on the floor by the hoover staring through a small cloud of brick dust at the massive hole he’d caved out in the wall. He’d not just shattered the skirting board, but he smashed through the masonry beyond.

Lucifer blinked the dust from his eyes. He was apprehensive about what Marcus would say when he saw the damage, but also rather pleased with himself. One of his bugbears regarding Marcus concerned quite how much stronger his husband seemed compared to him, and Marcus was rather too fond of using that strength. Yeah, Lucifer liked being dominated _sometimes,_ but his sexual appetite had shown itself to be rather more diverse. He disliked how, when push came to shove, Marcus could use his superior muscle power to pin him down and take what he wanted. When Lucifer ever got conkers deep inside his husband, Marcus clearly viewed it as an indulgence on his part.

Lucifer was keen to redress the balance, and fortunately, the only other pastime of interest that he’d discovered was pumping iron at the gym. Right now, he couldn’t think of a better way to let off steam. Seeing as Marcus wouldn’t be home for hours yet, he deserted the vacuum and the mess, changed into a gym vest and a pair of tight cycling shorts, and headed out of the cottage.

The gym, of course, was not in the cottage. It was in the hulking great asylum building that the cottage had once been the lodge house for. As Lucifer closed the door behind him, Rocco, the burly security guy who patrolled the derelict asylum site, was just wandering by—as he always seemed to be when Lucifer decided to go exploring on his own.

“Hey, Lucifer,” he said cheerily.

“Morning, Rocco,” said Lucifer. “Just off to the gym, if that’s okay with you?” In truth, the old asylum was a crumbling wreck, and supposedly off limits. But Rocco had taken him on a tour of the accessible parts, including the old gym, and didn’t seem to mind him using it.

“No worries,” said Rocco. “Just avoid the basement and west wing, okay? I don’t want to have to explain to that husband of yours why you’re buried under ten foot of rubble.” He chortled jovially.

“Will do.” Lucifer paced up the drive toward the huge empty structure, a tottering pile of pointed gables and dark, narrow windows that had long since stopped sending shudders down Lucifer’s spine. He’d a nebulous feeling that, while this dump was creepy, he’d been places far worse.

He made his way through the damp, empty corridors to the gym, where he’d been putting the collection of old-fashioned leathers dumbbells to good use. That morning, he excelled himself. He effortlessly lifted loads that he’d struggled with just days ago. When he slammed his fist into the punching bag that hung from the ceiling, the rope holding it aloft snapped. It flew across the room, smacking into the peeling paint on the sickly-green-coloured wall opposite.

Feeling pumped and primed for action, Lucifer made his way back to the cottage and cleared up the mess from around the skirting board. He took a shower and but didn’t get fully dressed. He changed into some tight boxers to get the dinner ready and wait for Marcus. He wanted his husband to see how damned buff he was after an intense, sweaty gym session. Plus, Marcus always preferred him as naked as possible.

Marcus, as usual, turned up a good hour later than he’d promised, by which time Lucifer was seething, both with sexual energy and frustration. Yeah, he was desperate to jump his husband’s bones, but he’d also had enough of being alone. His memory wasn’t coming back, but he was increasingly convinced this quiet life wasn’t _him_.

When Marcus finally closed the door behind him, shouting jokily, “Honey, I’m home!” Lucifer’s sexual energy won the fight to be expressed first. Still wearing only his underwear, he threw himself at his husband and found himself caught in Marcus’s arms, his legs hitched up around Marcus’s waist as they greeted each other with a hungry, wet and ravenous kiss.

Marcus seemed as pleased to see Lucifer as Lucifer was to see him, and carried him straight to the bedroom. After some playful grappling and wrestling, Marcus ended up lying flat on the bed with Lucifer straddling him. Marcus’s very hard manhood pressed up into the cleft of Lucifer’s lycra-clad arse.

“You look amazing,” growled Marcus, latching his hungry gaze onto Lucifer’s newly sculpted six pack. “I want you to ride my cock so I can watch you move, baby.”

“With pleasure,” drawled Lucifer, leaning forward and capturing Marcus’s lips again, grinding his own erection wantonly into his husband’s. He broke away to remove his boxers, leaving them hitched around one leg like a slutty garter. He prepped himself with lube with Marcus hungrily watching him, and then freed Marcus’s erection from where it tented the fabric of his trousers.

But rather than sliding straight on and seeing to his husband’s needs, Lucifer leaned forward to kiss him again. As he did so, he grabbed both of Marcus’s wrists, and pinned them at his sides. Then, with Marcus moaning and writhing beneath him, Lucifer slowly unbuttoned his husband’s shirt, littering Marcus’s torso with kisses, meandering lower, closer, then nibbling down the line of wiry hair beneath Marcus’s navel.

Lucifer nuzzled Marcus ever more intimately then pulled away, grinning, holding down Marcus’s arms once more. Marcus’s eyes were hazed with need, frustration, as he all but gagged for some satisfying friction against his cock.

“Baby, I’ve had one heck of a day. Just… please… get on with it!”

“Patience, husband mine.” Lucifer licked the length of Marcus’s shaft, enjoying his growl of desire, then backed off. He arched over Marcus like a cat, relishing that Marcus hadn’t thrown him off yet to take what Lucifer knew he so desperately desired.

“Lucifer! For fuck’s sake!”

Lucifer felt Marcus straining against him, the quake of his husband’s powerful body—and he just kept grinning, wondering how long he could keep this up. It sure was a fun game, and Marcus would get his satisfaction eventually… or, indeed, now. With an explosion of energy, Marcus ripped his arms free, grabbed Lucifer bodily, and had him biting the pillow beneath him before Lucifer’s faculties could regroup. Seconds later, Marcus had sheathed himself to the hilt inside Lucifer, and the more usual routine of their sex life ensued.

“Jeeees, Lucifer, you feel sooooo good,” sighed Marcus, thrusting into Lucifer, fast and ruthless, as if climaxing in record time was the goal. Lucifer, however, wasn’t in the mood to close his eyes and think of England—even if he _had_ possessed memories of the sodding place he was supposed to come from. As Marcus pumped toward victory, he jabbed his elbow back, causing Marcus to lose his rhythm, unsheathing himself from Lucifer and hollering with frustration.

“What the heck are you doing?” yelled Marcus.

“Having some fun,” snarled Lucifer, turning himself about and grabbing Marcus, so they grappled man-to-man. He ripped Marcus’s shirt from his shoulders. He was bored of being the only naked one. “You can’t _always_ have it your way. I want to ride you, Marcus. I want to see how much you want me, and watch your face when you come.”

Maybe because he was so desperate to get inside Lucifer again, Marcus didn’t resist too hard, lying back and allowing Lucifer to slide onto him. They groaned in synch, as Lucifer began to move, and he appreciated the frantic desire etched across Marcus’s fraught features. Lucifer frisked his own cock and fucked Marcus almost agonizingly slowly, enjoying the slide of Marcus’s shaft inside him. He ratcheted up his own pleasures much faster than his husband’s. Marcus, he decided, could be the patient once for a change.

Gradually, teasingly, he eked Marcus toward orgasm, relishing Marcus’s grimace of pained-bliss as he sprayed his own pleasure across his husband’s bare chest.

Later, at dinner, Marcus was quiet and moody, but Lucifer had made his mind up to speak. “I want to go back to the city,” he said, as he doled out a serving of pasta onto his husband’s plate. “I don’t belong here, and it’s not like my memories are coming back. All I get is the odd flash of familiarity, of déjà vu… then nothing. And I’m going out of my head with boredom.”

Marcus rubbed his face wearily and sighed. “But the doctor said—”

“I don’t care!” Lucifer smashed his fist into the table, so hard the plates and crockery leaped an inch in the air and landed with a clatter. “I want to go back, and you can’t keep me here. One thing I’m finding out about myself is that I _hate_ being controlled. I think, in the past, somebody… maybe my father… he manipulated me, right? Well, I’m not being pushed around anymore. You’re my husband, not my keeper.”

Marcus stared at him, long and hard. “Okay, Lucifer,” he said, raising his hands in a placatory fashion. “Have it your way. We’ll go the day after tomorrow, okay?”

“I’d rather go tomorrow, but alright. I guess that gives me time to pack.” Lucifer sat down, and began shovelling the pasta into his mouth, his senses on high alert as he watched Marcus. Marcus’s pupils were darting oddly, as if he was thinking hard, plotting.

Another nebulous knowledge, which had been taunting Lucifer from the margins of his consciousness, suddenly struck him like a sledgehammer.

_We’re great together in bed, but I don’t trust you, husband. I don’t trust you one little bit, and I’m not entirely sure that I could ever love somebody like you._

Lucifer couldn’t help wondering—was he really Marcus’s husband or his prisoner?


	6. Chapter 6

Across the table from Pierce in the bustling coffee shop, Chloe smiled thinly at him. She’d scraped her hair back into a messy bun, appearing severe and anxious, as she’d often seemed lately. This wasn’t even really a date, just quick a coffee break, but it was turning out as awkward as the rest of his attempts to further their relationship.

For Pierce, getting into Chloe Decker’s underwear had been somewhat more difficult than getting into Lucifer’s. Indeed, it had proved thus far impossible. That, however, was the least of his worries.

His plan was failing on all fronts. Chloe clearly wasn’t falling in love with him, and as for Lucifer—Pierce was pretty much at his wits end, with himself more than anything.

He’d seen and heard about the shattered skirting board. He’d struggled to keep control of Lucifer during sex, and Lucifer’s resurging strength alarmed him. Pierce had studied every grimoire he could get his hands on in the past week. While the ritual he’d performed was unique, he’d learned the results of many exorcisms and suchlike ceremonies began unravelling within weeks. How long would it be before the devil got his powers back, and Pierce’s waned completely? As for Lucifer’s amnesia, he’d learned victims of magic often shut down in such a way to protect themselves, and it also would come to an end.

Pierce knew he’d missed his chance to succeed with his original plan. He had to dispatch Lucifer before it was too late, and yet—

“Marcus, you okay?” Chloe took a sip of her coffee, and he realized he’d been completely ignoring her yet again, lost in his ruminations.

“Fine, fine, it’s just work as usual,” he said. “You okay? I take it you still haven’t heard from Lucifer?”

At the mere mention of Lucifer’s name, a light leaped in Chloe’s eyes. Pierce had to restrain himself from raising his to the heavens. She was so in love with Lucifer it was laughable, especially given the depth of her denial. How could he have ever believed his plan to steal her would work?

“No, I’ve not heard anything.” She stared into the mug that she now nursed in his hands. When she looked up again, there was a strangeness about her expression that alarmed him. Did she suspect? No, she surely couldn’t. He’d been too clever for that. “I just wish Maze was here, but she’s been out of state bounty hunting and nobody’s been able to get in touch with her.”

Yeah, that was because Pierce had sent her to Alaska on a wild goose chase. He’d needed that demon out of the way for sure, but she’d return sooner or later. Another reason he had to act decisively.

“Amenadiel has starting worrying.” Chloe chuckled softly. “Last thing I heard, he was in Vegas, checking out the marriage registers. No joy, though. I’ve made a few enquiries, but… well, I might have a small lead, but nothing major.”

As she spoke the final words, her voice wavered oddly, and dread trickled slowly down Pierce’s spine. What lead? What could she possibly know? Was she bluffing him?

“Decker, Lucifer’s fine. He’ll just rock up one day, expect to pick up where he left off, and won’t give a toss for your pain. He’s just not worth it. Forget him!”

Chloe finally looked up. Her expression remained motionless, eerily so. “That’s the first unkind thing you’ve said about Lucifer since he went missing,” she said. “You’ve been so sweet and supportive, which I’ve found… touching. I mean, you two never did get along.”

Touching… or suspicious? She was hiding it well, but she was chary of him, Pierce could tell. He combed his fingers through his hair and groaned. “Crap, I’m sorry, Chloe. I really am concerned too. I mean, I know you care about him, and I care about y—”

“Marcus, about that.” She pushed her hand across the table, laying it on his. “You and I. _Us_.” She squeezed his hand then pulled away, her voice tinged with what seemed like genuine regret. “I think we know it’s just not working. And it’s not because of Lucifer, I promise, although I have been worried about him. I don’t think we’re right for each other, which is… a real shame.”

Marcus gaped a moment, as he took in what’d just happened. She’d just dumped him. Chloe Decker had dumped him!

He’d known things hadn’t been going well, but he’d still hoped… oh fuck it, who was he trying to kid? They were both obsessed with somebody else, and they were both liars, or self-deluded in Chloe’s case, if they couldn’t admit that somebody else was Lucifer.

“Yeah,” he conceded, slumping back into his chair. “It’s a shame, but you’re right.” He forced a smile. “It was fun giving it a shot, right?”

She beamed warmly, although her eyes remained serious, as if she was trying to see through him, to the darkness in his soul. As if she knew that darkness was there, somehow. “Yes, it was fun,” she replied. “Sorry, but I’ve got to go now. Trixie will be coming out of school.”

He watched her as she left the coffee shop, dodging hastily between the other customers, replete with the narrow-minded purpose of a woman on a mission. Could she really just be going to get her daughter? Well, possibly—Chloe Decker took her parenting responsibilities very seriously. But she also had top notch instincts and a well-tuned gut for telling when something fishy was afoot.

Marcus downed his double espresso in one, and breathed deep.

Yeah, he’d failed. She was never going to love him, and his angel strength, if not yet his powers were somehow seeping back into Lucifer.

Whether Decker was onto him or not, he had to act and fast. He had to fly back into the wilds and finally kill… the man who, every day, he looked forward to going home and spending time with. And it wasn’t just the sex. Apart the odd squabble and their recent power struggle, they’d actually gotten along pretty well. Their relationship felt a lot more real and plausible than any he could imagine having with Chloe Decker.

He wasn’t in love with Lucifer, of course. He didn’t know how to love, but that didn’t make killing his “husband” any easier.

Pierce left the coffee shop, and ducked up the nearest deserted alleyway to ready his wings for the flight back out into the country. He willed them forth, feeling the now familiar tingle then rush of power. His wings surged from him—but when he glanced at their usually snow-white feathery tips, his jaw fell lax. The feathers had greyed a little, some sagged and others dangled loose. Shit! If his angel powers were fading this fast, he had even less time to act than he hoped.

With an effort of flapping that made him feel like an overweight woodpigeon, he took to the skies and headed back to Lucifer.

***

Pierce landed a mile from the cottage, and jumped into the battered jeep in which he daily completed his charade of having driven home from the city. After all, if he’d actually driven through all that damned traffic, Lucifer would have been even bitchier with him when he finally got in.

Manoeuvring the jeep into gear, Pierce sighed. He really didn’t want to go through with this, but he had no choice. He wondered when he’d become such a damned softie, flinching at murder. He’d killed his brother without a second thought, killing the devil should never have been a problem.

When Pierce let himself in the front door, Lucifer was waiting, arms folded, standing beside a series of suitcases. He was immaculately turned out in a three-piece light blue suit, complete with cufflinks and a stylishly placed handkerchief. Marcus’s stomach performed an alarming somersault. Damn. He knew bringing Lucifer some of his actual clothes from the penthouse would be a mistake. This man didn’t look like _his_ biddable Lucifer, waiting obediently in hot-pants for sex. From his sharp stare to his razor-sharp style, he looked for all the world like Lucifer Morningstar, playboy, club-owner and Prince of Darkness on vacation.

“Lucifer, uh, what’s going on?” he asked, apprehensive. He was pretty glad he had a syringe of carfentanil loaded and in his pocket.

“I want to go now, Marcus,” said Lucifer. “Tonight. I’ve had enough. My head hurts with trying to remember. I just want to leave.”

Pierce couldn’t contain a sigh of relief. Unless Lucifer was bluffing, he’d still no idea who he actually was, but Pierce suspected he’d no time to waste. “That’s fine,” he said. “If you’ve got everything packed, we’ll go now. Just… I’d like a cup of coffee first. I need something to perk me up before the journey back.”

“If you must,” said Lucifer, tart and impatient. “I’d much rather have a whisky, though.”

“That’s okay, I’ll drive. Let me get the drinks. You check everything is packed and ready.”

Pierce hurried into the kitchen, switched on the kettle, then poured Lucifer a large glass of neat scotch, lacing it with the contents of the syringe. Hurrying out to the hall, he handed it to Lucifer with a smile on his lips and an ache in his heart.

“There you go, baby, one for the road, huh?”

Lucifer took it and downed it in one. He licked his lips slowly, then looked at Pierce strangely. “That tastes… ” He smirked. “Bloody lovely, actually! I’m glad you didn’t put in any of that namby pamby watery stuff. I can’t believe a week or so ago, I had to dilute good liquor with that muck. Could do with another… to be… hon…est…”

Lucifer began to slur his words at the same moment that his knees began to buckle. Guiltily, Pierce watched him fall, slumping onto the floorboards at the bottom of the stairs.

He turned his back and went into the kitchen to get a knife. Even as he reached for the handle of the sharpest blade in the knife-block, he knew he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t cut Lucifer’s throat in cold blood. He wanted to scream.

Fortunately, he did have another option, albeit a temporary one. He’d brought Lucifer to this place deliberately. He’d used the derelict asylum near the cottage for holing up hostages before. Not only was in miles from anywhere, it had secure padded cells and steel-reinforced freezer facilities. He was pretty sure it would hold Lucifer, at least until Pierce could steel his nerve and get over his pathetic infatuation with the guy, or employ somebody else to do his dirty work.

He hauled Lucifer up over his shoulders, cringing at the strain. Either Lucifer had put on a lot of muscle mass in the past fortnight, or Pierce was growing weaker, human again. He suspected it was a bit of both, but mainly the latter.

He stopped halfway up the drive to ask Rocco, the henchman he’d employed to watch Lucifer, to help him. Together, they carried Lucifer into the asylum, and threw him down on the floor of the freezer.

Pierce stripped Lucifer’s jacket and shirt, then imprisoned him in the hell-forged chains he’d used in the ritual, ensuring his hands and feet were tightly trussed. Rocco, meanwhile, affixed a metal collar about Lucifer’s neck. This was attached to a robust chain of earthly origin, which he looped securely through the steel brackets that held up the meat hooks on the walls.

Once they’d finished their work, Lucifer had turned a greyish shade of pale; the hell-forged chains were glowing against his skin, doubtless scorching him again. He looked like he was drowning in the metal, being dragged back to hell by it.

Sickness gnawed through Pierce’s guts too, but if he couldn’t kill Lucifer himself, this was his only choice. He turned his back, flicked off the light switch, and followed Rocco out. When the thick metal door clanged shut behind, it resonated through all that was left of Marcus’s soul.

He didn’t love Lucifer. He wasn’t capable of love. So why did this hurt so damned much?


	7. Chapter 7

_Am I in hell?_

The notion seeped through Lucifer’s woolly mind, as his consciousness gradually trickled back. It slipped away, as he became fully aware of his predicament and of why he was quite so cold and uncomfortable.

He was lying curled up on his side on a concrete floor, in a large empty room that looked like it’d been used for storing meat. His wrists and ankles had been bound in thick and ancient-looking chains, while a collar around his neck tethered him to what looked disturbingly like an attachment for meat hooks. Terror shot through his trembling form. He countered it quickly with anger, as he recalled standing by the suitcases in the cottage, demanding to be taken back to L.A.

Was this another of Marcus’s kinky sex-games? Because, if it was, whether his memory came back or not, Lucifer was through with that controlling bastard. Somehow, though, Lucifer feared this wasn’t a game. For a start, while he was shirtless, he still wore the tailored trousers he’d put on to return to civilisation, rather than the underwear or nothing that Marcus liked to see him in. And something about the chains felt weird; they simmered against his skin, like a bad sunburn. When he tried to roll over onto his front in order to push himself up, the chains burned even fiercer, and they were _so_ heavy! He was a strong guy, but the effort of moving shattered him. He ended up lying flat on his belly, gasping and panting like a fish out of water.

Lucifer gritted his teeth, still focussing on his anger. Marcus must have done this. Marcus had strong motive. It was ruddy obvious the bastard wanted to keep him holed up here in the country as his fuck-toy for as long as possible. If only Lucifer’s memory would come back and he could aim to escape to a place or a person he knew, but still… He screwed his eyes tight, and concentrated hard.

His memory wasn’t the complete blank it had been straight after the amnesia had hit. He knew, somewhere, he had a past, and it floated, nebulously, just beyond his grasp. He’d begun to feel it more strongly… the pain, the hatred, and, even more distant and indistinct, a mere glimmer… of something else. Something important, like a segment of his heart and soul that’d been wrenched from him. He’d been reaching for it for days now, and it had felt like he was grabbing, hopelessly, into mists.

Whatever _it_ was, he couldn’t recall anything tangible of it, and that made him want to yell.

Refusing despair as adamantly as he refused his fear, Lucifer concentrated on trying to move again. The chains about his wrists and ankles felt solid as rings of stone, and when he attempted to sit up they tugged him back down. However, the collar about his neck was made out of a lighter, more modern metal, as was the chain attached to it that secured him to the wall.

Lucifer drew a deep breath and grasped the lighter chain between his tethered hands. Using all his strength remaining to him, he began to tug.

***

Snapping his tether from the bracket on the wall, in the end, proved the easy part. Once Lucifer had freed himself, he was still tightly trussed in the much heavier chains, which had now raised weeping blisters. Lucifer, nevertheless, nurtured a distinct feeling that he’d been in worse predicaments and had escaped from darker places before. He clung to this hazy knowledge as he dragged himself across the floor.

The only door was solid metal, and had no handle on the inside. The effort of reaching it had almost completely drained Lucifer, and he lay beside it for indeterminable period of time, mustering the strength to sit up. After what felt like hours, he managed this, and he spent another long while leaning against the portal. Cold sweat trickled down his face, and the enormous weight of his trussed wrists seared through his trousers into his lap.

It took three attempts for Lucifer to execute the final part of his plan. With what felt like a superhuman effort, he managed it. With a furious roar, he levered himself to his feet, his legs shaking like jelly, then slammed his whole weight—and that of the chains—against the door. The third time he attempted this, the lock gave. Lucifer fell through and slammed down into the equally hard and comfortless floor on the far-side.

He didn’t want to waste time recovering, so as soon as he’d regained his breath, Lucifer began to pull himself through the dank corridors of the derelict asylum. His success had set his adrenaline pumping, although not enough to quell the despised knot of fear that grew tighter than ever in his chest.

Where could he go? He couldn't stand up and walk and he didn’t even know where he was, or how far from any other habitation. Most likely, Marcus would come back and find him before he’d even made it out of the building and then back into the meat locker he would go. The only other person he’d seen in the past fortnight was Rocco. He’d no idea if the security guard was in on Marcus’s plan or not, but Lucifer supposed Rocco might be his only hope.

Lucifer was about to crawl around a corner toward what he hoped was an exit, when he heard footsteps. _Shit!_ If it was Marcus, he needed to roll out of the way and fast, but he’d scarcely shifted a foot toward the nearest doorway, when Rocco rounded the corner. On seeing Lucifer, he stopped dead in his tracks.

“What the fuck?’ ejaculated Rocco.

“It’s Marcus,” panted Lucifer. “He… he did this. Help me… I’ve got to get out of these chains. They’re killing me.”

Lucifer tried to lift his wrists, to show Rocco the red skin and sores, but hardly managed an inch. Rocco shrugged. “Maybe you wouldn’t have hurt yourself, if you’d just been a good boy and stayed where we put you like.”

Lucifer sank his face forward onto his clasped hands, deflated. So, Rocco was in on it too. He’d not a chance… unless…

He jerked his chin up defiantly. “Let’s strike a deal. If you let me go, I’ll make it worth your while.”

“Oh yeah?” Rocco grimaced spitefully. “What you offering?”

_Hmmm._ He’d not really thought his through, so...

“How about sex?” Lucifer quirked a beguiling smile that he didn’t feel. He wondered at himself, at how quickly and readily he’d offered his body, although he didn’t exactly have many other options.

“Oh my fucking God,” laughed Rocco. “You’re every bit the slut Pierce told me you were. Sorry, pal, but I’m straight, and you’re going straight back down that corridor.”

“How about money?” said Lucifer, garbling and slightly desperate now. “My father… I’m pretty sure he’s super-rich. I have money…” Well, he hoped he had access to _some_. “If you help me, whatever Marcus is paying you, I’ll double it. Triple it!”

Rocco answered with his boot, slamming his steel toecap into Lucifer’s gut. Lucifer cried out, curling himself into a foetal position, while Rocco stood and laughed.

Yet still Lucifer refused the escalating fear that wanted to claim him. A murmur in his soul told him he was stronger than this. He was _better_ than this. He’d more to offer than his body and pathetic pleadings. He could squash this silly little man as if he was no more than a bug. If… only… he could remember… how… who… _who_ he was!

Lucifer’s blood began to boil. He nurtured his anger; he grasped for some tenuous inner strength. An odd prickling sensation build steadily behind his neck and in his shoulder-blades. He wasn’t sure what was happening, but it didn’t scare him. Energy zinged through him from his head to his toes. He staggered to his feet, the weight of the chains suddenly diminished. At the same instant, a pair of beautiful white feathered wings exploded out behind him.

Lucifer rolled back his shoulders and grinned. Ah yes. This is who he was. Lucifer Morningstar, the devil himself. And those who brought the devil low would surely pay.

Everything rushed back. His Father. His rebellion. Hell. His escape. His vacation. Maze and his annoying brother. Pierce… no, _Cain_! And… Crap, there _was_ something else. Something crucially important that he just couldn’t recall, and that he didn’t have the time to wrack his brain to conjure now.

Rocco was prostrate at his feet, wobbly-lipped and quivering, much as Lucifer had been several moments earlier. Also, while Lucifer was able to stand, he now recalled why the chains were such a burden. They were hell-forged chains, although ironically, designed by an angel, his brother Amenadiel, to hold and restrain him. How Marcus got his hands on them, Dad only knew.

It was Lucifer’s turn to grin vindictively down at his victim. “If you want to stay out of hell for a few more years, Rocco, this is your only chance. You _will_ take these chains off me now.”


	8. Chapter 8

As Pierce approached the cottage doorway, Lucifer flung it open and stepped out.

“Hello Cain.” He bore his teeth in a feral leer. “Remember me?”

Lucifer let his wings spring out through the shirt he’d put on. The wings felt more fragile than usual, and some of the feathers wilted slightly, but his full strength had almost returned to him. His tightly clenched fists contained the blistering force of thunderbolts. Oh yes, he was going to let this miscreant have it for what he’d done to him. Not that he was quite sure _what_ Marcus had done to him, at least initially.

“Hello Lucifer,” said Marcus. A pair of skanky grey wings exploded from his back too. Lucifer staggered back in surprise.

“What… How?”

“I stole your powers, Lucifer,” said Marcus, dreary and matter-of-factly as ever. “And I’ve still got plenty of angel-power going for me, so _this_ —” He levelled his shoulders and paced menacingly toward Lucifer—“could be interesting.”

“Your pathetic little guard dog has scuttled away wimpering. So it's you against me, pal. And I’ll give you _interesting_.”

They charged each other, clashing with a bruising crunch, both grappling to get the first blow swung. Lucifer won the race, plying a smart upper cut to Pierce’s chin, enjoying the flash of white in his assailant’s eyes. Pierce stumbled back, but turned the move into a deft feint, launching a powerful punch to Lucifer’s stomach then a kick to his shins that felled him.

On instinct, Lucifer retracted his wings—they weren’t much use to him now. Marcus did the same, doubtless feeling their weight slowing him down, as he fell upon Lucifer. Lucifer used his burned wrists to block Marcus’s attempted strikes at his face, kneed Marcus brutally in the balls, then rolled aside and jumped up.

He glowered down at his nemesis. “You stole from me, _Cain_. I can’t allow that to go unpunished. I want _everything_ back.”

Marcus, red in the face and clutching his groin, straightened gingerly. “There was plenty of yourself you were willing to give, Lucifer. Jees, you were such an eager whore.”

Lucifer froze. It was true. He’d given himself willingly enough, and though it made him feel soiled, why should it? He’d given more himself in the past, in order to survive, or simply for fun.

“You told me you were my husband,” he said, quieter now, reaching again for his anger as if it were a lighthouse in a storm. “It was just sex, _Cain_. It meant nothing.” And yeah, he’d enjoyed it. At least, most of it. It _was_ just sex and Lucifer thrived on meaningless sex. “You took nothing from me of any importance that I can’t take back.”

The words choked Lucifer all the same. As Marcus barrelled toward him, Lucifer was distracted enough not to notice the knife in Marcus’s grip, until Marcus had grabbed him. One hand grasped Lucifer’s collar, the other held the curving hell-forged blade to Lucifer’s throat.

“Do it, then,” spat Lucifer. “Slice away and send me back to hell. Don’t think I can’t escape for round two.”

Lucifer’s words brought an unexpected pang to his chest. He didn’t relish the idea of going back to hell, but it was more than that. That something… That important _something_ , maybe a _who…_ that important part of his life that he still couldn’t recall, but that he knew to be intrinsically valuable to him. It… _they_ … They made him want to stay in this earthly realm, as if leaving would tear him apart.

He tried to brace himself for the cut, the blood, the searing pain. Then the choking ash and monochrome dreariness of hell. But he didn’t want to go! He didn’t want to die. He was trembling with apprehension, though he cursed himself for it. And why the bloody hell wasn’t Pierce getting on with it?

“Shit,” muttered Pierce in his ear, just as Lucifer noticed Pierce’s hand was shaking like a leaf.

Pierce was stalling. Marcus Pierce couldn’t bring himself to kill him.

Lucifer grabbed Marcus’s wrist, yanking the blade from his throat. He elbowed Marcus in the stomach causing Marcus to drop the knife. He twisted free.

“What’s this?” Lucifer towered over the hunched and wheezing Marcus. “Cain baulking at his bread and butter pastime of murder? Growing soft in your old age, eh?”

He grabbed Marcus by the front of his throat, pulling him up straight, balling his other fist. Even as he did so, Marcus screamed and flew both his hands to his chest, on which a celestial light began to sparkle. Lucifer watched, still holding Marcus up, as pure, divine energy streamed from Marcus into himself.

Lucifer cackled. “Thank you! Looks like more of my powers are wending their way home at just the right time.” He exhaled, sated and satisfied, as sensuous warmth fizzled through his veins. Marcus fell limp in his grasp, and Lucifer hurled him to the ground.

He stood, triumphant, over the prone and groaning Marcus. “Oh, Cain,” he drawled, “what am I going to do with you, now?”

Marcus rolled onto his back, and pushed himself up onto his elbows, chuckling ruefully. “You can’t kill me, Lucifer. If only—”

“Yes, but there are so many fun ways to make you suffer. I think I’ll take you home to Maze, and—"

“Lucifer!”

The female voice, at once strange and familiar, resonated like a bomb blast through Lucifer’s heart. He swivelled on his toes, and there it… _she_ … was.

The Detective. Chloe Decker. The thing… the person… the being of momentous import to him that he knew existed, but had refused to come back to him.

He blinked, disbelieving, at her. “Detective?”

“Lucifer, back off. I'm here now.”

Holding her gun charily at her side, she advanced slowly toward him. Lucifer suddenly felt as if he was still wrapped in the chains; bruised, grazed and battered, as he ought to have been after his rollercoaster of a day… if he was mortal again. His knees felt like jelly, as if they were about to buckle.

And then, even as he pleaded with them desperately to keep him standing, his legs gave way. “Detective,” he whispered, but it wasn’t the Detective who caught him. Pierce grabbed him firmly by the scruff of his collar, and he felt the prick of the knife’s blade against his quivering lifeblood.

Oh yes. Now he remembered the final, important detail. The Detective made him vulnerable. He flopped his suddenly too-heavy head back against Marcus’s shoulder.

_Bugger_.

She raised her gun. “Don’t do this, Marcus. It will only make things worse. Let him go.”

“Sorry, Decker. I can’t. And now you’re here, I can’t let you go either. Good work, by the way, finding me. How long have you been onto it?”

“Since that first night Lucifer disappeared.” Her words were calm but furious, her eyes somehow placid yet on fire. Such self-command! Lucifer remembered… she was _awesome_. “I guessed something was up when you were so nice about Lucifer, frankly. And then, when we hugged… I frisked you. You’d got a whisky flask in your jacket. Rookie error, if you ask me. I know you don’t drink much, and I couldn’t help suspect who you’d taken it from. This place has been hard to track down, but I got you, Marcus.”

Her gaze darted momentarily to Lucifer, who still felt faint. Marcus was pretty much supporting his entire weight. Concern appeared to momentarily disrupt her equilibrium.

“Lucifer, hold on in there,” she breathed, then her voice turned steely. “Marcus, I can make this shot if I have to.”

Lucifer felt Marcus let out a long, shuddering sigh, and then he tossed Lucifer aside. Lucifer collapsed like a ragdoll. Rather than surrender, Pierce walked boldly toward the Detective.

“One more step, and I will shoot,” she shouted.

“Detective, no. It’s not going to—”

Before Lucifer could complete his sentence, her shot rang out. Marcus yelled, grabbing his thigh, but he’d obviously retained just enough residue of angelic power to keep going. Lucifer tried to push himself up, to launch forward and help, but every part of his body was bruised, aching and complaining. He’d scarcely risen to his haunches, when Marcus wrested the gun from the Detective.

“Lay one finger on her, and I’ll… I’ll…” Lucifer trailed off, as Marcus, gun in hand, turned and advanced toward him.

“No. You won’t,” said Marcus. He raised the pistol, gunmetal cracked against the back of Lucifer’s skull, and everything went black.


	9. Chapter 9

When Lucifer became aware of himself again, he felt sick. His head hurt, his stomach churned, and the matter that he was being jolted up and down violently made it all ten times worse.

He pried open one eye to discover he was lying in the back of an ambulance, which drove over rough terrain, probably an unmade country track.

“Lucifer? Hey, it’s okay. You’re going to be fine.” The detective was beside him, holding his hand, looking worried. Her presence, he recalled instantly, was a decidedly mixed blessing. He had to get her away from him, if he wanted to heal. But having her hold his hand was… nice.

Behind her, a female paramedic was fussing with some machinery. Now he was awake, she started fussing over him, grabbing a light to shine in his eyes.

“Ow!” said Lucifer, squinting.

“Don’t worry, Lucifer, she’s just checking on you. I was so worried. What happened?”

“Don’t overwhelm him,” said the paramedic, giving Chloe a kindly pat, as she turned away. “It’s probably no more than a concussion, but he’ll need time.”

Lucifer found he couldn’t say that he was fine. That would be lying, because he felt bloody dreadful. Instead, he said weakly, “I’ll _be_ okay.” He squeezed Chloe’s hand, then fought off another wave of nausea. When he’d recovered, he said, “You’re a crafty one, detective. Thank you for finding me, but I need to know. What did you do about C— I mean, about Pierce?”

“I’m sorry,” said Chloe, “he got away. After he knocked you out, he threatened to kill me. He said he was going to kill us both, but he didn’t. I don’t think, in the end, he had the stomach for it. But Lucifer… what happened to you? Did he hold you captive?”

“Not exactly.” Lucifer shuddered inwardly at the remembrance, but figured Chloe had a right to know at least as much of the truth as she could handle. “He did something that made me lose my memory. Then he told me I was his husband… and I believed him. The holding captive part didn’t really happen until the end, after a couple of weeks. When he realized he didn’t have so much power over me anymore.”

A look of horror widened Chloe’s eyes, until he could see the whites. “He made you believe you were his husband? Did he make you… _do_ anything? Did he hurt you?”

“I didn’t much like being chained up with hell-forged metal,” said Lucifer, as airily as he could manage, while the ambulance lurched over another massive pothole. “Apart from that, not really. Because he claimed we were married, I mainly gave him a lot of sex, and there were toys and a bit of bondage, all good clean fun. I enjoyed it, well most of it.” He paused, biting his bottom lip, before disgorging the rest of the truth. “I didn’t enjoy it the first time, that first night. I didn’t know… sex could ever hurt me, in a bad way. If I did, I’ve forgotten.”

“Lucifer!” Chloe squeezed his hand so tight the bones crunched. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry. He… he… he told you he was your husband and then r—”

“Don’t be so dramatic! I _asked_ him to fuck me. I said it was okay.” Lucifer snatched his hand away and shut his eyes. He couldn’t take her sympathy. It was _killing_ him, and causing something dark inside him to awaken, something he’d repressed long ago to rear forth like a half-forgotten nightmare. “Worse things have happened to me, Detective, when I first got to hell, and I survived then. This is nothing.”

“Okay, Lucifer.” She stroked his arm gently, and his skin tingled beneath her touch, before he lightly shook her off. “But you should at least discuss this with the doctors at the hospital, or Linda.”

_Not likely,_ thought Lucifer.

“And I’m here. If you ever need anything, to talk.”

“I’ll be happy to talk about vengeance on Marcus Pierce,” he murmured, but finding words was growing difficult. He felt drowsy and even with his eyes closed, the world wouldn’t stop lurching and swimming and ruddy well spinning. He had to get the Detective away from him.

Fighting against the waves of slumber, he managed to force out a final request. “When… when we get to the hospital. Please… go and get my brother. Don’t just call him. Go fetch him in person. It’s… it’s important.”

“Of course,” said Chloe, and Lucifer, had he not been teetering on the edge of sleep, would’ve cursed his predicament. He wanted her close right now more than anything in the world; more than he could ever explain. But he also needed to stop feeling as if an elephant was tap-dancing on his head and another one rolling about in his stomach. Dispatching her to get Amenadiel was all that he could think of to do.

***

In the cab on the way home from the hospital, Lucifer stared out of the window and said nothing.

Every now and again, he threw a pointed glare in Amenadiel’s direction, just to stop his brother patting his knee again, or worse, putting an arm around him. He’d a nasty feeling the stupid angel wanted to, as Amenadiel had been all doe-eyes and endless fuss since he’d arrived. Lucifer had had to threaten to punch Amenadiel, to stop his foolish brother forcing him into a wheelchair to take him out of the hospital. Naturally, he’d been absolutely fine since minutes after the Detective left him and the thick git knew that.

Lucifer was now cursing he’d not asked for Maze, but at the time he’d been in a fuggy, brittle state. For some stupid reason, Amenadiel had seemed a good choice.

He wondered how much Chloe had told Amenadiel about what had happened to him. He trusted she had too much discretion to tell all.

Back at the penthouse, he managed to get rid of Amenadiel by promising to go straight to bed. He even let Amenadiel hang around until he climbed in, though stopped short of allowing the fool to tuck him in. The moment the elevator doors closed, however, he hauled himself to his feet and made his way over to the bar.

He was pouring himself a large, _very_ neat glass of bourbon, when he noticed the folded piece of paper on the bar. The handwriting on the back was familiar, scrawling and spidery, inscribed with the words, _To L from C_.

He was well aware that C, in this case, didn’t stand for Chloe. “Cain,” he breathed, even as the elevator opened again. He shoved the note into his dressing-gown pocket and turned around.

The “C” he very much wanted to see stepped into the room. He was extra pleased, as he really didn’t want to ruminate on himself too much tonight. Navel-gazing was a nasty habit he’d developed when he’d been alone in the cottage, trying to remember his life. He needed to shake it off.

He stood to greet her. “Detective! What a charming surprise.”

“I just… wanted to check you were okay.” She hovered awkwardly near the exit, as if she daren’t approach him.

“I really am fine,” he said, beckoning her closer. “Drink?”

She considered a moment. “Yeah, okay, just a small one. You sure _you_ should be drinking, though, Lucifer? It can’t be good for concussion.”

“Oh, they misdiagnosed me,” said Lucifer breezily. “The devil doesn’t get concussion, just a bit of a headache. All gone now.” 

He passed her a glass of whisky, every bit as full as his. She rolled her eyes at him. “Thanks. I’ll just have a sip. You can finish the rest.”

“With pleasure.” He settled down onto a barstool, pleased when she slid up onto the one beside him. “Well, the night is young. Got any plans?”

“Lucifer.” She touched his knee; he tingled again, then tensed. Since when had he been so jumpy around her? As if sensing his unease, she withdrew her hand. “What you told me earlier, about what Pierce did to you… I know you don’t like talking about that sort of thing, and I don’t blame you, but it _is_ serious. We can charge him with kidnap, obviously, but you should make sure he goes down for more than that. And there’s something else you need to know. While Pierce had you hidden away in the country, he was dating _me_.”

Lucifer choked on his sip of whisky and slammed the glass down. He wasn’t sure whether to scream with rage or cry, so he opted for laughter. “He was two timing both of us! You’re right, we should hunt him down and shoot him like the dirty old dog he is.” And it explained why Pierce had stolen his angel powers. He wanted the Detective to make him vulnerable, like she made Lucifer vulnerable, so he could finally die.

Ha! He’d failed. Still, Lucifer couldn’t hold back the question on his lips, though he wasn’t sure he’d like the answer. “So how did you find the sex? Not bad, huh?”

Chloe looked horror-struck. “I didn’t sleep with him!” she said, as if the very notion repulsed her. And suddenly Lucifer felt as small as an ant squashed into the floor. Of course, she hadn’t. The detective was good and pure, and he was the devil. A whore. A slut, like Marcus had said. He’d given his body with barely a thought.

He strove to keep his devastation from his face, but she must’ve read some of it. “Oh, I’m sorry. That came out wrong. The situation I was in was completely different. I mean, I _was_ tempted. I might even have done so, if I wasn’t so suspicious of him. And _you_ had amnesia; you were hurt and sick. He claimed you were married, and took a horrible advantage of you. We will bring him to justice for that, I promise.”

“You know, I actually am really tired,” he said. He put down his whisky. Astonishingly, he no longer fancied it. “I’d like to sleep.”

“Of course.” Chloe nodded with that look of soul-piercing understanding that got him every time. Which tore his ruddy heart in two. Because she wanted to understand, but she never could. And because she cared deeply for him, but she would never care for whole truth about him—the devil, the sins. The cheap dirty slut. Though it _was_ just sex, everything that’d passed between him and Pierce. It didn’t matter. At least, it shouldn’t. It’d rarely mattered to him before; why must it torment him now?

She touched his arm. He wished he was dead inside, because he wanted to hold her so much, for her to hold him. For their lips to brush together in a gentle kiss. He wanted it all so badly, but now he realised he’d be dragging her down. To his low level. To hell. He managed a brittle smile. “Good night, detective. Shall I see you tomorrow?”

“I can drop by if you like,” she said, “but take a few days off work. I think you need it.”

“I’d rather come in, actually,” he said. “I’d like to take my mind of, you know, being married. The lifestyle didn’t really suit me—all that dreary ironing, huh?”

He didn’t quite manage to laugh and neither did the detective. “That’s okay too,” she said, and then she was gone.

Lucifer pulled the note out from his pocket, opened it, and read it.

_"Lucifer._

_Don’t bother to come after me. I swear it’ll hurt you more than it’ll hurt me. I’ve realized one thing about myself—to quote another sinnerman, I’m sick of living, unwilling to die._

_I wanted you to know something. In medieval times, memory loss was a common symptom following a botched exorcism attempt or other demonic ritual. It’s been interpreted by modern scholars as a subconscious way for victims to protect themselves from the trauma. In all cases, the last memory that came back to the victim was the thing most precious to them._

_You remembered Chloe Decker last, didn’t you?_

_Made me laugh. She’ll never admit she wants you, and you’ll never deserve her._

_The sex was a blast, by the way._

_See you in hell, husband mine (with any luck!)_

_Cain."_

How dare he? Lucifer scrunched the paper in his fist and hurled it across the room, hellfire flashing in his eyes. The flames waned fast. Too fast.

He slumped forward onto the bar, burying his face in his arms. Pierce could’ve killed him. Worse, he could’ve killed the Detective, but he hadn’t. He’d run away. And thinking back on their marriage, it hadn’t been all bad—a physical and mental power struggle of a relationship built basically on sex. If Lucifer had ever sought marriage, although the notion was laughable, it was probably the marriage he merited.

And he couldn’t even imagine a committed relationship with a good person, somebody pure and wise, like the Detective. He’d screw that up in no time, and even if he did want it—which he didn’t, he _didn’t_!—he’d never deserve it. The idea of him chained to a bed in hot-pants would outrage her. Cain was right.

He knew he should be screaming for vengeance, straining his every sinew to hunt down Cain and make him pay, but he didn’t have the energy right now. He didn’t even hate him as he ought. Thinking about Pierce tied his innards into knots, and even sex didn’t feel like a refuge anymore. Maybe carnal knowledge wasn’t always so meaningless, and Pierce really had taken something from him that he couldn’t take back.

And yet again he thought of the Detective. What did it mean, that he’d blotted her out so completely, protecting his precious memories of her during the worst of his ordeal? 

He knew the answer. Of course, he knew. Pierce had known too… But, shit, Lucifer was a mess. If he’d been lost before, he was drowning now.

“Lucifer?”

He looked up, caught his breath and held it. It was the Detective. Chloe. She’d come back.

“I know you said you wanted to sleep but… I was worried.” She seemed flustered, as if she wasn’t sure she’d done the right thing. “Trixie is with Dan tonight, so if you need company, I _can_ stay over. Sleep on the couch? But… not if you don’t want me to. I totally get it if you need space.”

He couldn’t lie to her and say he wanted her to go. Just the sight of her seemed to anchor him, bringing him spiralling back out of the dark. He realized tears were streaming down his face and he only faintly cared. “No, Detective,” he said. “I don’t want to be alone. Please… stay?”

She came over to sit beside him again, and slid her hand over his. He didn’t tense. Her touch felt oddly heavy, reassuring, so sweet and warm… and real.

“I’ll stay as long as you need me, darling,” she said softly. “We’ll get through this together. I’m glad you’re found.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading. I hope you enjoyed the story. 
> 
> When I finished drafting this several weeks ago, I was satisfied with the end… Now, hmmm, I still like it, but I am tempted to explore where things go after this, both with Lucifer and Chloe (oh, all the lovely h/c!) and with Lucifer’s quest for vengeance. I suspect getting Lucifer to confront his issues would take at least nine more chapters, mind… we’ll see ;)
> 
> Thanks again.
> 
> Oh, and there might be a new story up on Sunday, with a lot more Deckerstar h/c, because I discovered I really like writing it :P

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading :)


End file.
